Trial & Errors
by Stars in the Sky at Noon
Summary: Three-shot about Voltaire's trial. Features Voltaire, Kai, Tala, Bryan, Spencer, Ian and mention of Boris. When Voltaire is faced with startling evidence about the five boys' changes, he begins to rethink his choices and his life. T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Trial**

_This is just a short oneshot about the Demolition Boys and Voltaire. This takes place during a trial against Voltaire for his actions concerning the abbey and BIOVOLT. It's mostly my own imagination running wild, but - enjoy!_

* * *

Of all the things he'd felt in his life, it had never been remorse, in the mind of Voltaire Hiwatari.

If so, then why did the emotion resound so strongly in his heart right now? He was a man in a trial for his life, and yet all he felt was a strangely hardened pity for those he'd tormented.

Above them all, pity for a certain testifying victim with a locked jaw and tightly-pressed suit. His grandson. Kai.

As far as he knew, his grandson had taken over Hiwatari Enterprises, and cleaned it up a bit of the remaining taints of BIOVOLT. No one ought to detest that organization more than Kai. Unless you counted his four Russian friends, of course.

Spencer, Bryan, Tala and Ian were all glaring at him, from across the bench, with the exact same distorted faces of rage. Each still bore the marks of their earlier punishments.

Voltaire hated it, but his hands were shaking. He clenched them in the tightest fists he could but even then the shaking didn't stop. His knuckles were white and his face flushed with blood, he knew. Somehow having the tables turned, having his life on the line, seemed to have completely changed him from cold and heartless to soft and shaky.

Was it age? The fear of death? Perhaps he'd grown malleable as the years passed? But Voltaire had always been a cold, ruthless businessman. It was a trait he'd tried to pass on to his grandson, and a trait that was now being used against him as Kai wove his tale of misery to the jury.

With each question the lawyer asked, Voltaire could feel his heart pounding. He couldn't even hear any of the muffled words, for his heartbeat was so clearly audible. It was a wonder no one was staring - unless you counted the Demolition Boys, though they were glaring more than staring.

Unlike his grandson, Voltaire had not been given the liberty of wearing his firmly groomed suit. Instead, it was Kai who sat at the stand, Kai who spoke like a man of action, who wore the dark blue pinstriped suit and called the shots. When his gaze turned to his grandfather, it reminded him so much of his own that he shivered. Both out of fear and pride.

Kai's story started out somewhat hard and gritty, like he was a survivor of some distopian universe. Then it grew regretful, mournful, and weaved itself into a tale so rich in sadness that the jury could no longer hold in their tears.

When asked to describe the change in their relationship and where it currently stood, Kai's gaze burned through him. "I want to hate him," he said softly. "But how do you hate the man that raised you, almost since you were born? How do you hate your own grandfather, despite all the crap he'd put you through? How do you hate the man that was supposed to bounce you on your knee and tell you stories when you were young, who taught you all you knew?"

Was Voltaire the only one who saw through his facade? Even the Demolition Boys had started breaking out with a couple of tissues. Only Tala and Bryan remained in perfect, sculpted stone.

Voltaire still admired Bryan's stoically enhanced structure. The research and technology put into it was incredible, and he'd felt as much wonder when they first tested him on the field. By simply watching him, Voltaire recalled the faint shimmer of emotion that sent chills of wonder down his spine. Truly, the boy himself had become a work of art to the field of research. It was a pity that would be wasted.

It didn't mean he couldn't tell a story, though.

Bryan's role seemed to be assigned as the tired young man who had put up with too much of the gruelling experience to even care anymore. Yet his every detail in every account of his beatings, witnesses to murder, torture, extortion, and many other crimes alongside it were startlingly accurate.

Tala was the same, but a cracked and meek version of Bryan. His testament was short, due to his "difficulty in coping with the situation" (or so he said), but like Bryan, his memories were startlingly accurate.

"The abbey is evil," he declared with a shiver. "And Boris, and Voltaire, and every one of this bastards that out us through that hell. That's where we were; hell, fighting for our lives just so that we could fight for the sake of a devil."

The businessman began to feel a sting of confusion. Had he really harmed these boys so much? Had he truly pushed them so far to the edge, they resorted to such drastic actions? He had difficulty in believing it. The boys never seemed to care. He knew that, inwardly, they had always feared him, but even with all the torture and suffering that passed around them they never did so much as flinch. That was the reason he was so enraged at Kai's escape. How dare the boy betray his loyalties and run away like the coward he was? And yet, here they were, each giving their own sad story to the jury.

Whoever hadn't allowed their forming tears to be released yet let them loose when Ian finally came to the stand.

Ian broke down in the middle of his testament at least five times. He was in his teenage years, yet small in size, Voltaire knew, but even so he dealt the cards of youth, innocence and pity very well.

Blubbering about how difficult it had been in the abbey, Ian's mouth was a dangerous, derailed train. He emphasized quite a bit on Voltaire's cruel nature and the merciless harm that had been brought down on them over and over.

At first he thought nothing more of it than a corny display, but then Voltaire began to realize how much these boys no longer feared him, and the amount of thick, concentrated hatred that had come against him instead. Though by now, Tala's head was bowed and his shoulders shaking, Spencer and Bryan's gazes were colder than Russian snow, whilst Kai's head was still swivelled in Voltaire's direction, his crimson eyes burning like that of a Phoenix.

Each of those eyes spoke of hatred. Kai's, fiery and defiant. Bryan, cold and hard-hearted. Spencer, seething with rage and a refusal to so much as glance in Voltaire's direction. Even Tala, whose face was hidden in shadow, had his features contorted in an angry snarl; Ian, filled with and gushing tears like a faucet, had fists that, Voltaire glimpsed, were shaking with fury.

He'd known for a very long time the boys would hate him of they ever got free. He simply didn't know that they would hate him, specifically, so much.

Boris, he told himself, Boris should have been the one they hated the most. Boris was the one who trained them. Boris was the one who starved them. Boris was the one that ordered the punishment, forced them through training, and devised all the terrible plans. So why did they hate him, the unknown face behind the organization, so much?

The answer could have been written on their faces, and the mastermind grandfather still wouldn't understand.

Spencer went up. At the very least, the larger boy was honest with every question the lawyer gave him. Voltaire was glad he hadn't gone up earlier, for each of his answers came in perfectly-tuned timing with the elder man's thoughts.

"Could you describe your relationship with the defendant, please?"

"He's a slavemaster. An evil, mastermind, madman."

"Your relationship, please." The prosecution's lawyer looked like he was trying to swallow a log. "How you would describe your connection to the defendant."

Spencer's arms were crossed and his eyes fixed firmly on the rest of the Demolition Boys as he answered. "He was the man who funded our very suffering. Just some rich freak that we all knew as a master. He knew us as a couple of drones that were his servants."

The prosecution's questions seemed to become his own.

'How do you feel about me now?'

"I'll be glad when that old bastard over here is dead. I'll have nicer dreams tonight."

'Why?'

"That face haunts me every night. That place haunts me, and when he's gone, I know that abbey is, too."

'What did I ever do to hurt you so much?'

Spencer's jaw tightened, and suddenly Voltaire was glad for the presence of judges, guards, the other Demolition Boys, and that the stand Spencer sat in was difficult to remove and launch oneself from, for he knew, in that moment, that if Spencer could have killed him just then, he would have.

The boy's eyes were murderous. "I hate him," he growled, his voice quivering. "We all do. He's responsible for everything, all of it. From the first day I saw his face in the abbey, I started to see it everywhere. Even with his dirty mask on, Boris's face became his. Every single guard that pushed me around had his nasty mug. With... With every single person he made me fight..." His voice cracked, and he shook his head. "All I saw was him. He haunts me everywhere. Not just at night. I don't have to look at him to see him. All I want is to see him dead."

The courtroom fell silent with Spencer's dark and bloodlusty proclamation. Even the churning thoughts in Voltaire's mind were silent, but for some reason he stood up, chains clattering against the polished surface of the wooden desk. Some people tried to pull him down, but he persisted, standing despite the urges of his attorney and orders from the guards.

"Go on, Spencer." His voice was so cold and dead the courtroom could freeze. "Tell me. Tell them. Tell them everything."

A wild look flickered in the boy's eyes, but he looked away and stared down at the desk. There was a shuffle from the benches in the back, and Voltaire looked back to see that his grandson had stood up. He was holding Tala's hand tightly,tears brimming in his eyes. He gave a small, tiny, nod, one that only Spencer and Voltaire saw, for they were the only ones who dared to look.

"We suffered, all of us...for his selfish sake. We didn't know what we'd ever done wrong, but we were just...punished." The last word came out in a forced choke.

"We survived, somehow...thinking of would make things better. If we performed better. But the pain just kept coming, they did more things..." He took a shuddering breath, shaking uncontrollably. But one look at his friends seemed to bring him back to full confidence.

"They put a chip in Bry's head," he announced more loudly, chewing his lip so hard Voltaire thought the skin might break, with a gaze determinedly looking at the Demolition Boys in the back. "We heard him screaming for days how much it hurt, and we tried to take care of him, but then after...he felt nothing. That hurt us the most, losing our friend like that. We still took care of him - whenever he would let us, but it just wasn't the same. Ian cried too much, and didn't get food for a week. We gave him what we could, but he was still so thin...so weak...he couldn't do anything, and we couldn't do anything because he was trapped in a cell all by himself and couldn't move..."

Voltaire remembered those days well; Bryan had been the most expensive soldier of them all, and money well spent. Voltaire had observed the operation himself, but the last memory he had before seeing the boy as a mindless drone was nothing but stitches being sewn to seal the cut made in his skull. Boris had informed him later on that a few of the boys had required punishment due to the change, and Voltaire had quietly accepted it without even caring or realizing who in particular had undergone these brutal teachings.

"Tala, you..." Spencer swallowed. "You tried so hard to help us...you were the one who figured out ways to sneak food for Ian when he was half-starved, you lost battles against us on purpose so we wouldn't be punished..." He gave a bitter chuckle, and Voltaire turned to see that the red-haired Russian had buried his tearful face in his hands, a watery-eyed Ian and soft-faced Bryan both embracing him. Several times, Voltaire's attorney stood to try and state an objection, but the elder kept insisting to let him continue. "I want to hear this," he murmured. "I want to know what they think." He refocused his enraptured gaze on Spencer, though the lawyer looked at him as if he was crazy.

"Tala, you were so...sensitive, but...we probably wouldn't have made it out without your help..." The red-head gave a small noise halfway between laughter and a pitiful sob. "And Kai..." Spencer's eyes glazed over. "You...were the bravest. I'd never seen anyone so fierce and rebellious in the abbey..." He took another deep breath, though this time it was more controlled. "When Boris would take us for punishments, you made a deal and took them instead...the number of times we snuck out, just you and me, Kai, and painted stupid stuff on the abbey walls, it was the only time I ever felt free, the only time I had fun there, even just a little bit...and then when they found the paint cans, you..." He gave a small chuckle that turned quickly bitter.

"You took all the blame, and it hurt worse, watching you come back...all bloody...and then that one day the four of us finally shared a cell, you told us..." Spencer swallowed, a small sound that was easily heard in the thick silence of the courtroom. Voltaire thought he would continue, but then his former Seaborg slave buried his face in his hands and let the tears flow.

Voltaire's attorney stood, meaning to take the floor, but a voice spoke up from the back. "You told us that you were Voltaire's grandson," said Bryan quietly. "I told you I never wanted to see your filthy face again." He gave a bitter laugh as he glanced down at Kai, who wore a sad smile accompanied by a single trail of water on his cheek that Voltaire had never seen before. "And later you ran up to Boris and punched him in the face after he gave me a good smacking." His eyes died down to something apologetic and regretful; once again, an emotion that Voltaire had thought completely alien to the boy was on his face. "I'm so sorry," Bryan whispered to the Hiwatari grandson, sinking back down to the bench.

Kai's gaze was averted. "I ran away the day after," he murmured, "but I wish I had taken all of you with me." Bryan held back for a minute, seemingly hesitant, but then buried Kai in his arms.

A strange bewilderment had overtaken the helpless, elderly man sitting in the defendant's corner of the trial.

He knew these boys. He thought he had. They showed no pity, no remorse, no anguish, and no regret for causing pain.

Everything in this trial was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Spencer didn't have nightmares. Bryan never apologized for anything. Tala wouldn't accept comfort, nor should Ian offer any. And least of all, could his grandson ever shed a single drop of liquid other than blood. Even his eyes were proof of that.

But now those eyes, those thoughts, those actions, and those boys had betrayed him. Voltaire thought he understood those boys because he watched them battle. Knew them inside out and saw straight through them all because they were afraid of him. How could his miserable mind have been so wrong for all these years?

If he didn't know these boys, no one quickly and silently, he realized: study knew each other. They had shared tears and apologies with one another, something he had never seen in them. How? They were in separate cells up to the day they'd been chosen to represent Russia. None of them had ever interacted in any friendly manner before either Voltaire or Boris. How was it that he knew so little about them after so long? Even his own grandson?

But he did know one thing: what they savoured was defeat. The taste of his last-minute stand as he floundered under their vast numbers and overwhelming strength.

Though he knew that some of them were trying to hide it, Voltaire could tell that the jury was glaring at him with obvious hatred. Some let it show directly on their faces, while others, at the very least, attempted to disguise or mask their disgust.

Voltaire smiled. He'd always been known as a ruthless businessman. He would have no problem dying that way, too. He leaned over to his lawyer and did something he'd never done before - surrendered.

"Call off the witnesses," he murmured. "I know I've paid some of them, but just give them more money to leave. Now. I don't have a defence. Is that understood?" He was so used to giving orders to Boris, he'd almost forgotten that his loyal servant was gone - shot by the police whilst attempting to escape.

The attorney gave him a baffled look. "Absolutely-"

"Do it, or you're fired," Voltaire snarled.

Licking his lips, the attorney whispered to his assistant, then stood, straightening his tie, and made the announcement to the court: "My...my client...the defendant...says he has no defence for his actions."

A small gasp rang around the courtroom; Voltaire smirked. He could almost feel the angrily burning gazes of the five boys behind him.

The judge gestured behind him, to the bench. "What about all the witnesses you've gathered?" She queried, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

The attorney glanced behind him, and Voltaire felt a flutter of annoyance at having to clarify, but he held his smirk steady. 'A good businessman never smiles, if he can help it. He just pushes his lips up, just like the business.'

"They're...not witnesses, your honour. Just...friends. Family."

Voltaire heard the dark mutters behind him, but it didn't matter; the bribes had already been given out, so those people could still walk out with their money.

The judge glanced back and forth. "Very well," she decided, looking rather cross. Voltaire looked behind him and saw that the gazes of the five boys behind him were laced with a single, suspicious thought: did he bribe the jury? Threaten them? Was he somehow going to evoke something with his death? Would there be others to come after them?

Voltaire settled back in his chair with a satisfied smile. A businessman couldn't smile, but a dead man could.

Those boys would rest in peace for the rest of their lives, while Voltaire in his own handmade creation of a grave.


	2. Chapter 2

The jury had reached a verdict within minutes. Guilty. And charged with the death penalty immediately.

Voltaire didn't protest or argue as they led him away. Why should he? He'd dug his own grave, he wasn't about to run from it.

He refused the last meal and instead asked to see Kai. "I'd like to speak to my grandson," he requested politely.

"They'll come if they want to," the guard briskly replied.

In the end, no one came. Voltaire was all alone until the priest came for his last prayers, and the guards escorted him to his deathbed.

The walls were blank white and so was the cot they strapped him in. Behind him, the wall was glass. It was tinted, so he couldn't see the figures behind it, but he already knew who would be there. Only four boys to watch the execution.

Tossing his long mane of grey hair, Voltaire tried to adjust the long tangled locks so that they didn't scratch his back. His heart beat numbly, and though he'd never admit it, he was afraid, now that he was cornered with the certainty of death.

It was too late. He'd already brought the trial to a close; he knew that once he did so his fate was set. But, at the very least, he'd set it himself. No one should decide where he'd wind up; heaven of hell, in the light or dark, powerful or weak, without his consent and decision. Some might call him a madman, like Spencer back there, but it was all him. Voltaire Hiwatari was forever in control, and he had made the last stroke to be sure those boys would remember it.

"Grandfather. You seem uncomfortable."

The voice almost made him freeze, but he kept a smirk straight and steady. "Kai." He looked up, though it hurt his neck, to see his grandson, in the pinstripe suit, walking like a man of purpose. Walking exactly the way Voltaire taught and wanted him to. Everything that Kai did now, he knew, would forever be under the shadow of Voltaire's hand. It brought a sneer to his lips.

"I feared you wouldn't come."

"Here I am."

Voltaire craned his neck to look behind him. "No Demolition Boys?" He asked mournfully. "Don't you need your friends to face a harmless old man like me?"

Kai shrugged, his face contorting to mock surprise. "We thought it would make you feel better without them around, since we are quite an intimidating bunch, but I can call them in to comfort you - if you'd like."

Voltaire could feel his blood rapidly boiling - that little brat, using his own tricks against him - before he relaxed and chuckled.

"I'll still be here," he informed his ignorant grandson. "In everything you do - everything you've done, in fact, was first spread out by me. You're doing, and will continue to do everything I say, everything I asked for."

Seeing Kai's puzzled expression, he gave a small chuckle. "No? You still don't understand? You are me, Kai. You've taken over Hiwatari Enterprises, and brought the company to its highest, if the rumours stand true. You've given up on that team - what was it? Bladebreakers? - and are still hanging tight to your old friends-" he spat out the last word like venom. "-the Demolition Boys." He sighed and laughed. "It's everything I wanted. It'll all be carried out by you." He grinned wildly. "Congratulations, grandson. There's some things in your inheritance that I know you won't be able to resist - like the company, a bit of curious beyblade research I have - and even a familiar little bey."

Kai shuddered. "Black Dranzer," he whispered, without even seeming to realize he had done so.

Voltaire nodded. "All it takes is a small curious peek he crooned, "and before you know it, you've dived into waters too deep to resurface from. All you can do is sink. Happy birthday, Kai."

"What?" Shock laced his grandson's gaze. Voltaire only kept smirking, knowing that annoyance would later drive the boy to the edge. "Happy birthday. I was quite surprised when the priest told me the date, as I've rather lost track - March 23rd, eh? Must be a nice present, especially since we never celebrated it."

"You're wrong."

Voltaire threw back his head and laughed even harder than before. "Oh, am I? Come back to my grave in twenty years and correct me, please. Or look on your birth certificate. I assure you, I'm being quite truthful."

Kai's chilling laughter suddenly matched his own, and Voltaire stopped - no. This couldn't be. His grandson - Kai - he sounded...so happy.

"You're very wrong," Kai sighed. "There's no Demolition Boys. No reason for them. I haven't left the Bladebreakers, it's beyblade that I - that we, all of us are never going back to again."

"What?" Voltaire's enraged snarl seemed to bring a smile to Kai's lips.

"Oh, yeah... I visited because there's something else I wanted to tell you...big news, actually. Hiwatari Enterprises is getting a new name."

It was Voltaire's turn to be puzzled, and Kai's to chuckle. "Hiwatari Enterprises isn't mine, starting next week. I'm selling it."

Voltaire's heart turned stone cold; he wished the execution had already come and gone by now. "Wh-what?"

"And guess what?" That smile was so taunting. "I sold it for only a hundred billion."

"YOU FOOL!" Voltaire bellowed. "That's one fifth of its worth!"

"Yeah, I know." His grandson's tone was apathetic to whatever Voltaire had to say, but was keyed with a strange touch of joy. "But Tala, Bryan, Spencer, Ian and I..." He looked into the window, and this time, when Voltaire's imagination saw the four invisible boys, there were smiles on their faces and love in their eyes.

"...We're just gonna live. Happily ever after. You get to die in your own grave, old man." His grandson gave him one last pat on the shoulder. "Have it your way."

As his grandson walked proudly from the room, he heard him - another shocking trait - whistle the tune of the happy birthday song.

Minutes later, a needle was injected in his arm, and a tube. Silver liquid flowed through the rubber cylinder, travelled through his bloodstream, and didn't stop until it reached his heart. Slowly, the stone object stopped beating. The cold eyes grew blank, while the warmth of his body faded. And safely behind a window, a group of five boys watched.

"I'm glad that's over with." Tala's voice was soft. His hand was still tightly holding on to Kai's, who gave him a comforting squeeze.

Bry leaned forward, allowing his forehead to touch the glass. Someone covered the unloving, now unmoving face that had been the object of his hatred and cause of his torment for so many years. "Think we'll ever see him again?" Kai, Tala and Ian shot him confused looks, but it was Spence who responded.

"Maybe. But tonight should be the first that I don't dream of him again."

Finally understanding, the others nodded agreement. "Hey..." Ian nudged Kai. "We heard that you were going to sell that company your grandfather owned. Is it true?"

"Yup," Kai replied, sating their curious stared. "For a fraction of the price. I told Voltaire as much."

Bryan smirked. "No wonder he was so angry."

Kai's grin widened, and Tala couldn't help but feel an astounding happiness at seeing him smile so much in one grim day. "Best part is that I didn't tell him - for selling it at a fraction of the cost, we get twenty percent of all their profits. In everything."

Ian's grin was filled with mischief and a delight they hadn't felt in years. "What're we going to do with all that money?"

They all glanced at one another with the same glint in their eyes.

"Mansion," Bryan barked.

"A vacation, on a boat," Spencer sighed.

"Paintball!" Ian suggested, and they all looked at him with baffled expressions.

"What's that?" Bryan asked when no one else did.

Ian shrugged. "Dunno. It's something that Tyson told me about. He said it was cool."

Bryan groaned. "If that big-ass cow-eater thinks it's cool, I'm not doing it." Kai rolled his eyes at them all.

"Hey, it's my money."

Tala pouted. "Oh, Kai. Sharing is caring."

Meanwhile, Bryan and Ian were still arguing.

"Mansion!"

"Castle!"

"Mansion!"

"Castle!"

"Mansion!"

"Castle!"

"Or a beach house," Spencer interrupted. "Now calm down, you two."

Neither dared argue, but they stuck out their tongues at one another.

"What about you, Tala?" asked Kai, startling his friend.

"Oh, me? I would..." He looked around at all of them, and tears began shuddering in his eyes. "Just this. All of this. I wouldn't want anything more than you guys. Family. That's...that's all I want to be, you know."

Bryan was second to his reasoning. "I agree. You know, Spence..." He glanced over in Spencer's direction, his gaze soft. "That was...brave of you. On the stand."

Spencer only grunted to show his appreciation.

Kai smiled. "All right," he chuckled, pulling out his phone. "I'll get a plane to take us back to Russia straight away."

Tala gave him a mocking look of surprise. "What, without seeing your Bladebreaker friends?" Kai knew that was still a sore spot between the two of them, but he felt too soft towards the red-head right now to care. "Of course," he told him. "I value my family too much."

The five boys grinned.

"Mother Russia it is."


	3. Chapter 3

Science says that, in the seven seconds just before a human's death, they witness their entire life again.

As was such with Voltaire Hiwatari from the moment that the cold liquid entered his bloodstream and searched through his veins for the man's steely heart.

In spite of what he said, he had regrets. Many concerning his daughter and the ill-fated accident that had claimed her and her husband. And it was all his fault. But Voltaire, for his entire life, had denied this and instead put the blame on the boy.

Kaya Hiwatari was Voltaire's greatest treasure. Though he'd hoped she would replace him in his business, she instead studied to become a veterinarian.

Voltaire didn't mind he was instead proud, as she graduated too of her class and went to start her own office and industry. Alongside being a vet, she ran a medical company that also provided charity worldwide. It was a steadily growing business, and Voltaire was more than proud to support it. He advertised and helped build her company and charity, helping both humans and other creatures alike.

If he'd been so proud of her, how could a single man make all those expectations come crashing down?

After she had married Alexander Pope, he abandoned his daughter. He didn't approve of this man, a poor soul working three jobs to pay his rent, fired twice already and having a criminal record. Lopsided glasses. Grey-blond hair. But Kaya was crazy for his eyes, a proud and bright, royal red that he saw in his grandson with every glance.

"I'll take care of her, sir," he'd promised, but Voltaire had instead banned them from returning to his house.

Kaya was so angry with his disapproval, and he let her. Meanwhile, he shunned them and their corporation, their good causes, their very existence - until he heard the news.

The call had come by accident, from a confused nurse. He was in his office when his cell phone rang. "Hello? Mr. Hiwatari, your daughter's water recently broke."

The rest of the conversation had provided a rushed explanation of a detail that Kaya and Alexander had deliberately forgotten: his daughter was pregnant.

The next hour, meanwhile, was a hurried visit to the hospital - just out of town, and it took hours to get to with distance and traffic.

By the time he'd arrived, they'd already left. "As soon as the child was born, they took the baby and drove off," explained a confused nurse. "It was ill-advised, but they departed after hearing that you were coming."

Hearing that broke Voltaire's heart more than anything. His resolve was quick: he would catch up to them and apologize, thousands of times over, if it just meant that he could hold, even once, his baby grandson.

He saw them in the traffic. He nearly didn't recognize them until they pulled their bodies from the accident.

The car was tipped on one side in a ditch, with police and officials swarming the scene. A reporter stood to the side, talking in a low tone. Voltaire recalled driving past, thinking what a shame it was, until he saw one of them holding a crooked pair of large-lens glasses, smashed by the accident.

He leaped out of his car and staggered over to the rubble. Some people tried to stop him, push him back, but he surged forward, muttering "that's my son. That's my son."

Kaya's body was twisted in a strange way, and her eyes were dull. Her face was covered as they wrapped the body in a sheet and wheeled her away.

It took some convincing for the authorities to realize who he was, identify him as a relative, and finally let him through. He kissed both Alexander and Kaya's pale cheeks, wishing them comfort in death. That was when the cry caught his attention.

A young female officer was holding the baby boy, but quickly surrendered him to Voltaire. "He's yours, now, if you'll take him."

Voltaire had gazed at the child as he embraced him, and the infant suddenly began to wail, as if sensing the distressful commotion that had just taken place around him.

"He's completely unscratched," reported a baffled authority. "You're free to care for him.

Something dark and cold had settled over Voltaire Hiwatari as he gazed at his boy. The accident sent a deep cut of grief through his heart, so great and terrible that he resorted to the side of him that after under apathy: the businessman. Voltaire Hiwatari was just a businessman who would operate in shadow.

But soon, came an era of a sport called beyblade. He heard a legend of its impressive power, from a fellow friend named Boris, and the two deigned to work together.

His daughter's orphanages became training centres. The company she left behind, Pharmaceutical Caring, became the secretive BIOVOLT, with Boris as its head. The factories and buildings they operated in now created beyblades, machinery and weaponry. All the beauty his daughter had created, he turned into something both great and terrible.

"Your son has impressive beyblading skills for one so young," Boris noted one day in a casual lunch meeting, just the two of them at Hiwatari Mansion, plus an ignorant Kai beside them, spinning a beyblade about in boredom.

"He could succeed in our training program, I believe," Boris suggested slyly, before adding hastily, "minus the punishments. There's no need for him to go through that."

"Why not?" Voltaire was well aware of how cold he sounded. "He's nothing special. Just another worthless child, born of my blood. There's no reason for him to deserve special treatment." He fixed his grandson with a steely glare; Boris must have detected the hatred that coursed through it, because he decided with a smirk: "I'll have him in by tomorrow, sir."

The next few years would be hard for that boy. And yet, Voltaire regretted none of the decisions that led him to this dark path until the moment of his death. Why hadn't he considered these consequences? Why couldn't he have acted differently? Why couldn't he have intervened and prevented all this?

You can't intervene in something you caused yourself, he told himself.

All this in seven seconds; all this thought formulated just before Voltaire Hiwatari's death. If only he had reflected on this sooner, would things have been different?

A flash called death claimed his mid and body as the chemical reached his heart. His last thought was of the family he'd mistreated so badly, whether they were in heaven, hell or simple death, and if he would join them.

* * *

..._ gee, that was just depressing. I'm so sorry to put you through all that, but thank you for reading this story. Read, review, do what you must. Eat chocolate or something if you're really depressed. But I though this would be a sweet way to finish things off... And here you are. _

_I've been kind MIA on the site before I decided to publish this story. I just wrote it all in one shot, which took a couple hours, but I'm good. _

_SITSAN's back in the house! :)_


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